


Bastards Rise in the Arms of Ghosts

by The_Furthest_City_Light



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A boy and his dog, Adventure, Because HONOR, But Jon does it anyway, Friendship, Gen, Omens, father/son bonding, honor should really be a character at this point, jon hates the night's watch, so does Ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Furthest_City_Light/pseuds/The_Furthest_City_Light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Snow is the bastard of Winterfell. Ghost is a runty, albino direwolf. Usually the only thing they have in the world is each other. Watch as Jon and his Ghost take on the greatest threat the world has ever seen, and depend on one another in the process.</p><p>Or: Ghost is really doing his best here to make sure Jon lives, but his pet human does not make things easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Meeting

"I'm not a Stark," Jon reminded Bran. Confusion spread across his tiny face, and maybe a little hurt as well. With the puppy in his arms it just reminded Jon of how young and innocent he was. Jon's father was his father, and to Bran that was all that really mattered. The word "bastard" was a foreign concept, not applicable to someone as close to him as Jon was. "Get on," he encouraged.

The boy looked as if he wished to say something more, but then he turned away and Jon had the passing, sad thought that maybe Bran wasn't as young as Jon wished he was.

Jon turned to follow, noticing Robb standing ahead with a frustrated look on his face. He wanted to comment on Jon's statement, he could tell. But he wouldn't do so in front of Theon and Bran. Besides, even Robb couldn't quite manage to look dignified and serious while clutching two squirming puppies to his chest, something Theon was quick to tease him about.

Jon took another step, trying to keep his thoughts from turning dark. It was not easy, as he watched his family's backs turn away from him. It was a little too harsh a reminder.

Then a soft whimper, almost too quiet to be heard. He looked back at the mother wolf, suddenly worried she was still clinging to life somehow. It would be kindest to just end it, and assure her that her offspring were safe.

But the direwolf was dead, truly dead. There was no life in her yet. So that meant…

His eyes scanned the tree line, looking for something out of place.

Sure enough, a flash of white caught his eye, and Jon went to it.

Another puppy, this one stumbling helplessly into the roots of a tree. Jon took pity on the poor thing and picked it up by the scruff of his neck. He was tiny, and thin. Jon would be surprised if it even weighed three pounds. The soft fur was pure white, like the driven snow, and it squirmed in his grip without making a sound.

"Oh the runt!" Theon crowed, "That one's yours Snow!"

Well he supposed it was kind of apropos.

He still gave the puppy one more exasperated look because _really?_ Would he _never_ be free of the blackmail ammunition?

He brought his other hand up, to support the creature's bum. The wolf stopped squirming, adopting a sort of stillness that was almost unnatural. Jon looked at him, held aloft, and then the thing opened his eyes and Jon couldn't look away.

The eyes were a deep, dark red, set above a long nose, a strange air of solemnity to them that Jon couldn't help but think was something unusual, special.

There was a single heartbeat where they simply stared at each other. Then the puppy squirmed almost violently. To hold onto him better, Jon tucked him into his chest, like Bran and Robb had done with theirs. The squirming stopped, and the wolf happily nuzzled his neck.

Something shifted, snapped in his mind. A warmth in the back of it, something soft and strong and implacable. He froze at the sensation, and the pup curled further into his hands. A wave of contentment, and strange satisfaction passed through him, and Jon _knew_ , deep in his bones that it was not him who felt so satisfied but the puppy in his arms. It was a shared feeling, somehow. There was something connecting him to the puppy as real as the air they breathed.

Jon took one breath, then another. Then he kept walking, not saying a word.

It was something private, he could tell. And it didn't _feel_ dangerous. Not _right_ , exactly, or natural, but not dangerous.

"His eyes are open!" Bran said excitedly, the puppy in his arms whining a little at the bouncy ride the excitable boy was giving him. "Strange. He might be the runt of the litter, but his eyes opened first."

"Everything grows at its own pace," his father stated mildly, only a few steps ahead of them. Ned Stark cut a strong figure, with a thick fur cloak over his shoulders and his hand resting easily on the pommel of his Valyrian steel sword, Ice.

When he was younger, Jon wished desperately to have such a presence. Now, he thought a little ruefully, not much had changed, but the puppy in his arms probably threw off the image.

Bran babbled on, about how much fun it would be to have the puppies, about how he wanted to see what they could do, and did Nan know of any stories where Direwolves had magical powers?

Jon kept his silence, slowly stroking the little wolf's fur. The puppy wagged his tail, and Jon smiled in response. He wasn't sure why he didn't tell them. He just knew it wasn't something he wanted to share.

"Magic is gone," Theon snipped harshly. "I'm not sure it ever existed, anyway."

Jon would have told Theon to sod off, but Bran beat him to it. "If magic never existed then where did all the stories come from? And the wierwoods? And the _Direwolves_?"

Theon rolled his eyes. "Fine, it existed once. But not now. These are just wolves now, nothing too special."

"Direwolves are different, Theon," His father replied. "They're deadlier. More intelligent. Not to mention much bigger."

Unable to snip at Lord Stark, Theon turned his spite to Jon, as per usual. "Not Jon's pup! I'd be surprised if he made it to the size of a flea-bitten mutt!"

The wolf in his arms turned from Jon then, locked his gaze with Theon, and growled.

It would have been a bit more threatening if the growl in question wasn't so high-pitched as to be just short of a whine, but Jon doubted that detracted from how unnerving it probably was for Theon.

Bran smirked smugly. "Told you!" he crowed to Theon. "He knew what you were saying about him!"

The look on Theon's face was rather priceless. "It was probably just a coincidence."

But no one really believed that. Least of all Theon.


	2. The Choosing

Unnamed was wrapped tightly in the furs of a dead bear, clutched to the chest of a young human male. It was comfortable there, and warm. The Unnamed was grateful. Without the Mother-wolf he and his Brother-Sister-wolves would have died. And besides, the humans who took them in smelled of winter and ice and snow. It sung in their blood, especially the one who held him, who smelled of something else as well—of fire and sharp spices and ash. It reminded The Unnamed of home, the North where everything was still with cold.

Nothing here was still. The horse-prey moved swift and controlled with the direction of their human masters, and birds flew bright and colorful in the swaying treetops. There was a chill in the air, but it whispered of the North, beckoning him on. He would be home, it said, if one was willing to run just a bit further, and let the kilometers pass below.

His legs weren't strong enough, his body too small for the tundra of the North. He couldn't survive alone, too young to be without Pack.

Unnamed felt his Mind-Soul-bond thrum, unconscious anxiety lessening. The travelling was nearly over then, and they approached the wolf-men's den. Unnamed struggled against the human's grip, trying to shift so he could see.

Stone rose above the grassy hilltop, flags waved and an image of a Brother-wolf hung from ramparts. Unnamed heard voices, too many to count, and a confusing array of smells rise from the man-den. Rich scents of flowers, of oil and fire. He smelled meat too, and Unnamed salivated. Something was off about it though. The meat-smell was carried by smoke.

 _Men burn the blood from their meat_ , Mother-wolf told them once. _It is for them who have forsaken the wild only._

His Bond-human was behind the rest of his pack, apart from them. Unnamed did not mind. He could watch his Brother-Sister-wolves from here.

The footing changed as the Pack approached. The horse-prey's hooves clacked loudly against the stone, and hollowly against the wooden bridge that led to the clearing-space inside, the stone walls encasing the people and separating them from the wildlands.

Unnamed wondered why they would do that—the wildlands were a part of humans as much as they were the wolf, and these humans _were_ part wolf.

Anxiety ratcheted up again, and Unnamed searched for the threat, the cause of his Mind-Soul-bondmate's distress.

A female human, past her prime but strong, stood before the alpha-male. Unnamed sniffed and decided this was the alpha-female, the alpha-male's mate. Their scents were mixed, and although the alpha-female had no wolf in her, Unnamed could smell her on some of the other wolf-children.

And there were _more_ wolf-children, Unnamed realized. Three of them. Two young females and a male. The eldest female and the youngest male looked like the alpha-female, while the younger female looked more like the alpha-male. She smelled strongly of the North, Unnamed could smell it from this distance.

That was when he realized that his bondmate did not smell of the alpha-female, but _did_ smell of the alpha-male. Whelped from another female, maybe? Unnamed thought this must be the cause of his bondmate's stress. She recognized his bondmate's potential and was jealous, which was why his bondmate felt wary of her.

All the wolf-children were alpha-types, actually. The others around them were beta-types and omega-types, mostly. So the pack was actually the head of a larger pack.

His Brother-Sister-wolves started to whine, the unknown smells and sounds exciting them. Unnamed smelled their curiosity, and in a few of them, their fear. He did not blame them—it was a strange place the humans took them to, and had it not been for the Mind-Soul-bond he may have been scared too. But the bond _was_ in place, and his bondmate had no ill intentions towards him or his Brother-Sister-wolves.

"What have you brought home this time, Ned?" Asked the alpha-female. For some reason his bondmate became seemed hurt by the question, more anxious too.

"Direwolves," the alpha-male answered. "We found them suckling on their dead mother. There's one for each of the children."

So they were to be paired. Perhaps his Brother-Sister-wolves would find a bondmate in the wolf-children as well?

"Direwolves, Ned? Are you sure?" There was anxiety and surprise in the alpha-female's voice.

"They're an omen, I think. Six puppies, six children. And a wolf killed by a stag."

Alpha-female's voice sharpened, and his bondmate's tension rose. "I see." Then she sighed. "Well come on then. Let them pick."

His bondmate dismounted, careful not to hurt Unnamed. An omega-human came to take the horse-prey away, and his bondmate stepped next to the boy who smelled of the sea and metal. His blood was not of the winter. It was thinned by water, by weakness, by its inconstancy—the ocean's worst quality. He smelled of betrayal and cowardice, of terrible things to come and steel aching to kiss bared throats.

Unnamed did not growl at the Sea-Monster-man, because he did not deserve it. He was a beta-type who wanted to be an alpha, and took it out on his bondmate due to jealousy. Unnamed could understand that. He did not have to forgive it though.

"They're a sign from the gods, Catelyn, and they're wild things. Let a wild thing choose, and you'll earn their loyalty for life."

Alpha-female huffed. "Oh, very well." She didn't smell annoyed though.

His bondmate shifted his grip on Unnamed's belly, and carried him forward, to the center of his Pack. Sea-Monster-man and the two elder wolf-pup males came forward as well, to unburden themselves of his Brother-Sister-wolves. His bondmate left him next to his littermates, and Unnamed stared after him, perplexed. He was still weak, half-starved because Mother-wolf only had so much milk and too many puppies. He could not follow at the moment.

"Are you sure, Lord Stark? They're just wolves, they probably don't know they're supposed to do anything." Sea-Monster-man asked. Unnamed stared at him. Did he not understand they were more than just their simple cousins?

"They know," his bondmate said quietly. It drew the attention of some of the wolf-pups.

 _We're supposed to pick them,_ he told his Brother-Sister-wolves. _One for each of us._

 _Partners?_ His eldest Brother-wolf asked, _A new pack?_

 _They're wolf-children_ , he assured them. _They're already Pack. I've chosen mine already._

 _The most innocent for me_ , his night-black brother proclaimed, and wriggled blindly for the youngest wolf-child. The boy bent down delightedly when he reached him, and plucked his Brother-wolf off the ground.

 _The dream-walker_ , another Brother-wolf decided, and tripped a few times getting to the young male who carried him here.

 _The fiercest_ , the larger Sister-wolf decided, and she made her way to the wolf-girl who smelled more of winter than even his bondmate.

 _The driven one_ , his smallest Sister-wolf claimed, picking her way almost delicately toward the remaining female pup, the one with red fur to match his Sister-wolf's russet coat.

 _The noblest of them_ , His last brother-wolf chose, and waddled blindly for his partner's skin-feet-protectors.

 _The outcast_ , Unnamed called, _like me_. And he fixed his eyes on his bondmate and struggled toward him. His target was the furthest away of all the wolf-pups, and Unnamed knew he would not be able to make it even the few meters to his bondmate. But he would try, because he was a wolf and because he chose his bondmate as a life-partner. Even if he hadn't formed the bond, he would have chosen him. They were soul-brothers, the same wildness and other-ness about them.

But he was still weak, and after tripping twice he found himself too tired to go on. He heard his Brother-Sister-wolves, the smaller ones, whine on his behalf, but he himself refused to beg for help.

In the end he didn't need to, because his bondmate came to him. He gathered Unnamed off the ground and up into his cloak, where he found warmth. Unnamed allowed himself to burrow into it, grateful for the help, and he licked his bondmate's furry neck to show his gratitude.

"He needs to be fed, they all do." His bondmate told his pack— _their_ pack. Wearily, Unnamed licked the pale flesh of his bondmate's wrist in agreement. The emptiness in his stomach was painful.

"There's milk in the kitchen. When they get older you'll have to teach them to hunt. I doubt we can support a pack of full-grown wolves off the regular herd."

"Yes, Father," the noble one agreed.

The wolf-pups carried Unnamed and his Brother-Sister-wolves toward a large structure, bigger than anything he'd ever seen. They veered off before entry, and Unnamed noticed his bondmate was once again trailing behind the rest of their pack.

They came to a room, filled with dead trees and bent metal and a fire burning between stone. The pack gathered around the center table and one of the betas around them moved some strange metal collectors onto the table, each one filled to the brim with milk.

It was not Mother-wolf's milk, but his stomach ached for it anyway.

The noble one noticed, and set a milk-container in front of them. "Your wolf needs food sooner than ours do, Jon. You go first."

His bondmate reached for the milk, and Unnamed felt his happiness at being noticed, acknowledged. "You just need a guinea pig, don't you?"

The noblest smelled amused. "Oh no. You discovered my evil plot."

"Hand me a spoon, will you? I don't think he'll be able to drink on his own. The rest of them can probably drink from bowls."

The fierce one handed him a small stick with a wide end. His bondmate shifted his grip on Unnamed and suddenly he was more upright than was strictly comfortable, while still pressed against his bondmate's chest.

"Tilt your head back," the boy ordered.

Unnamed did as he was told, and the wood was gently pressed to his muzzle. The wolf accommodated him and parted his lips. The milk slipped down his throat and Unnamed licked the spoon greedily. His bondmate pulled the spoon away, only to replace it a moment later with more milk.

"Slowly," his bondmate scolded. Unnamed bit the spoon in response. His bondmate scowled at him, but Unnamed could feel his amusement.

Unfortunately, his bondmate took it upon himself to moderate the amount of food he received. Five spoonfuls later, the spoon left and didn't return.

"Sit on that," the boy told him. "You can have more in a bit."

"He's clever!" The innocent one exclaimed.

"I'm willing to bet they all are," the noble one countered, "But Jon's pup _does_ seem a bit more responsive than the others."

The driven one passed a few large saucers out. "Our wolves can drink on their own, I think. As long as we lead them to the milk. And don't let them drown."

"They'll be fine, Sansa," The dreamer reassured his littermate. "They really are clever. And they're direwolves. They're magical, I'm sure of it."

The Sea-Monster-man looked as if he might say something, but didn't as the honorable one and the driven one filled the saucers from the milk-pails carefully. His Brother-Sister-wolves gathered around the milk and experimentally lapped at it before attending to their meals with enthusiasm. Unnamed turned his gaze to his bondmate accusingly.

The boy just laughed, "Yes, yes, alright."

His bondmate continued to feed him at an agonizingly slow pace though. Long after his Brother-Sister-wolves filled their bellies until rounded, his bondmate stood by the table, and fed him spoonful by spoonful. Eventually, he felt his stomach tighten with its fullness, and Unnamed refused the milk. By then he was sleepy and his limbs felt heavier than his eyelids. His bondmate picked him up, cradled into his chest, and he was rocked to sleep by the purposeful sway of his wolf-boy's walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it. Ghost thinks Jon is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Keep in mind that he is extremely biased though. I don't find Jon as "perfect" as Ghost does personally. I like him much better when he has flaws, and he's human.
> 
> GRRM has stated that part of the reason Jon and Ghost were paired was because they were both outcasts. I incorporated that into this, obviously.
> 
> How'd I do with this perspective? I was going for uncontrolled, intelligent thought. The direwolves, especially Ghost, are extremely intelligent creatures. But they are wild creatures too. I didn't want them thinking like humans. I wanted Ghost to think like an extremely intelligent wolf. How did I do? Let me know how I did on everything else too!


	3. The Naming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon chooses a name for his puppy. Plus, Ned and Jon bond.

Jon set his puppy down before the saucer in the kitchen and poured the milk out from the pail. The wolf locked eyes with him and pricked his ears in gratitude before settling in for his meal.

It was not an all-the-time thing, he'd realized. Whatever this bond was, whatever link they shared, it was not something that was constant. It was always there, niggling in the back of his mind, but usually he wasn't aware of it. Only when the puppy was feeling a particularly strong emotion, or...and he wasn't _sure_ of this…when the puppy wanted to communicate with him directly. Intentionally.

Jon was still wrapping his head around the idea, to be honest.

He still hadn't told anyone of the strange connection he'd made with the direwolf puppy. It still felt…private. Like something that shouldn't be shared casually. He'd tried to inconspicuously inquire to Old Nan about direwolf mythology, but he'd pressed a little too hard and she'd gotten suspicious, so he retreated. Luckily for him, Bran was more than a little curious about the old stories, and he'd overheard enough to know direwolves had the potential to bond strongly with human counterparts. Sometimes the stories depicted the partners as two halves of a whole being, working in flawless tandem together. When it came to the Stark family specifically, Old Nan told them, a direwolf was a guide through troubled times. A friend and ally and protector even in the harshest winter.

Jon did worry about that bit. A direwolf to a Stark was an omen as much as it meant good fortune.

And they now had six of them.

He observed the puppy lapping at his milk. He wasn't so skinny anymore, his muscles and belly both bulking up and fattening. He could move under his own power now, which was a relief since Jon had been forced to carry him around the entire first week of his stay. Now the wolf followed where he went.

Well, for the most part. The wolf was usually in his general vicinity, but often times he disappeared from sight. It wasn't shyness or skittishness that made him do it. Rather, his direwolf simply liked to observe the proceedings from the outside of any action, rather than the center. A curious trait, and one Jon found a little ironic, considering Jon was usually _pushed_ to the outside unwillingly, and his direwolf had either accepted that as his place or genuinely preferred it.

He should probably feel a little uncomfortable with that but he wasn't.

Besides, he'd noticed the puppy always appeared at his side when he started to feel anything even a little negative. Like when Lady Catelyn appeared around a corner and he wasn't expecting to see her, or when Theon started heckling him. He was a constant presence, and Jon found it somewhat centering.

A series of high-pitched yaps came from the yard, and both Jon and his wolf looked up at the door in unison. A chorus of howls answered the wolf, and Jon looked expectantly at his puppy.

To his bemusement, the wolf just looked placidly at him before gathering himself at the edge of the table. Jon plucked him off and put him back on solid ground before pouring the remaining milk back into the pail.

The little wolf never howled. Not once. He hadn't even whimpered since Jon found him by the tree in the forest, and Jon was beginning to worry something might be wrong with his 'voice.' He was silent, always just appearing places, with little to no explanation as to how he arrived there without alerting everyone around him. The only noises wolf ever made were growls, sometimes while playing with the smaller wolves in his litter, other times at Theon when he went too far with a jape, or Ser Roderik when a sword came too close to Jon's throat.

Jon always told the wolf to stand down when it happened. But he had to admit it felt good to have someone so unquestionably on his side.

They moved out to the yard, checking out the disturbance. At the base of Winterfell's tallest tower, Bran's tawny puppy barked at the base. Jon's white puppy trotted up to his littermate, and Jon allowed his eyes to trail upward.

There, of course, Bran clung to the wall, on precipiced bricks barely millimeters wide.

"Bran!" He called, and his little brother swung deftly outward, turning to look directly at Jon. The bastard raised an eyebrow. "If you're scaring your wolf, you're probably too high."

" _Any_ height is too high," Lady Catelyn scolded, striding firmly up to Jon and Bran. Jon stepped aside so Bran could see her better.

The ten-year-old grimaced. "Sorry mother." And he began to make his way down, faster than Jon would have believed possible, let alone safe.

Lady Catelyn's pale face indicated she agreed, but she rushed to the base of the tower silently. She only started her real scolding when Bran's feet touched the ground. Jon gracefully pulled away, wolf following silently behind him.

Shadow, maybe, would be a good name. He certainly acted like it, and it wasn't like Rickon claimed it with his jet-black wolf—the very innocently named Shaggydog. That would have been the obvious choice, too.

But Shadow didn't fit. Not really. A shadow had no mind of its own, simply followed mindlessly. And his wolf was anything but mindless.

Robb jogged out of the armory, his wolf trotting at his heels. Robb's wolf had grown larger in the month since they found them, and by now they'd all opened their eyes and were moving under their own power. Robb's wolf was the biggest by far, now almost standing at Robb's knees.

"Bran alright?" He asked. Jon nodded.

"Climbing again."

Robb's face relaxed. "Ah, so that's why mother is scolding him in the yard."

Jon shrugged, and watched the wolves greet each other. Jon's wolf was so much smaller than Robb's that it was almost comical. The bigger animal had to spread his forelegs in order to touch noses with his smaller brother. It almost looked like the regal creature was bowing.

"It would seem the wolves are quite useful in helping us keep track of dangerous habits."

Robb grinned. "Well, everyone else maybe. Yours isn't going to be much use in that regard." Jon rolled his eyes. His wolf's silence was becoming something of a joke among them. "Thought of a name yet?" Robb inquired good-naturedly.

Jon shrugged. "Working on it. Nothing I come up with seems quite right."

Robb rolled his eyes. "Well you should pick something soon. We can't just keep calling him 'that one' or 'the one that doesn't make noise,' or 'the one we never see but somehow know he's watching.;" Robb snapped his fingers. "How about Whisper?"

Jon's wolf snarled, and he felt the dissatisfaction emanate from the back of his mind.

"I think that's a no." Robb looked slightly put out, so Jon needled him a little more. "And anyway, it's not like you're particularly good at the whole naming business anyway."

Robb looked affronted now. "Grey Wind is a perfectly acceptable and fitting name."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Maybe, if I didn't know you named him that when you decided he literally looked like a Grey Wind."

"Like I said. Fitting." He shrugged. "And anyway, Grey Wind seems to like it."

The wolf in question wagged his tail twice in acknowledgement. Jon noticed his wolf had disappeared again. "I suppose one can't argue with results."

Robb seemed amused again. "It would seem not. You up to anything?"

Jon shrugged. "I'm going to the godswood. After that I have a few chores."

Robb nodded. "I have to help Ser Roderick clean the armory all afternoon. See you for dinner?"

Jon smiled, face a little tight. "Aye."

They begged off in their own directions. White flashes followed Jon out of the corner of his eye, all the way through Winterfell, until they reached the gates and Jon found himself alone once more. Then the wolf appeared once more at his side, and Jon smiled at him as he trotted ahead, nose slipping to the ground.

It wasn't long until he reached the Weirwood, the garnet leaves clashing with the pale trunk and the pale sky.

It was his favorite place in Winterfell, and he often came here even when he wasn't praying, just to appreciate the quiet. To think.

The wolf gave a soft, juvenile growl as they approached, and Jon felt his wariness increase. The wolf only spoke when something discomfiting or dangerous approached.

He scanned the area. Nothing seemed terribly out-of-place. But his wolf trotted right up to the tree, and sniffed at its base. Jon followed, and it wasn't until he was almost on top of it that he realized what lay there.

"A crow," he said with some surprise. The thing was long dead, mauled by something vicious that killed for the sake of it, apparently. It was a bloody thing, its chest torn open and one of its wings hanging at a strange angle.

It would be a strange sight any day, but sitting at the base of the Weirwood?

That wasn't a coincidence. It was an omen.

The little wolf sniffed at the bird, and Jon didn't have time to realize what the wolf was doing before the bird was gathered carefully in his mouth.

Then he turned to Jon, his eyes matching the red around his muzzle, and he trotted off with the bird flopping in his mouth. Jon followed, until the wolf stopped and deposited the crow in the ashes of an old fire.

"A funeral, huh?" He looked around, and started to collect wood. It would be small. Just barely enough to burn the bird. The feathers would help. It wouldn't even have to burn very hot.

When he'd collected enough twigs, he set them around and over the bird, arranging it in a close circle, and then took out his flint and steel. It took a few tries, but the twigs caught, eventually, and within seconds the feathers caught too. The fire peaked, and Jon thought he saw something in the flames—wings, something bright. A sword.

And then it was gone, and Jon was left wondering if he'd really seen anything at all.

He didn't feel quite like praying, anymore.

He'd wanted to ask about his future, about that idea that had taken root in his mind.

Every generation a Stark son went to the Wall, if he could be spared. Every generation, without fail, for eight thousand years. Robb couldn't go—he was the firstborn. Bran was too young, too valuable as the second son. Rickon too sweet.

Jon though, Jon could go. In fact he was the obvious choice. He was an unclaimed bastard, and could receive no inheritance or titles. But if he went, if he served as this generation's Stark, well then—it was almost like he'd been a Stark all along.

He hadn't told his father he'd been considering it yet. But he got the feeling Lady Catelyn somehow knew. She hadn't dropped any further hints about his leaving since they returned with the wolves.

His direwolf might like the Wall. He would probably be more comfortable there, at least.

Jon stood. Well if he wasn't going to pray, he may as well sit by the lake to think.

The wolf trotted before him, forever sweeping the earth before allowing Jon to step. He was a loyal creature, this one. Fiercely protective. Theon could make all the jokes about how the little wolf haunted him he wanted. This was one soul he was proud to have on his side.

The wolf knew where he wanted to go, somehow, and led the way to the lake, silent as the grave, like always.

"Nothing's wrong with your voice, is it?" He asked worriedly. A wave of annoyance and exasperation that was not his own washed over him. He chuckled. "Just checking."

The wolf turned back to his plodding, just ahead of him. When they reached the lake, Jon sat with his back to the Weirwood and scratched the wolf behind the ears. The little creature sniffed once, then plodded off into the nearby foliage, obviously curious.

"I really do have to pick a name for you," he muttered, not really expecting the wolf to listen. The water was clear, and smooth as glass. Come to think of it, Jon couldn't remember a day when it wasn't. Even on the windiest, stormiest days, the lake remained undisturbed. He'd heard stories, once, of lakes that acted as gateways to the realm of the dead. A crossing point for souls to fly from one plane of existence to another. He used to have nightmares about it, thinking that a wraith would come up behind him while praying at the Weirwood, and pull him back into the lake, under the waves to the land of the dead.

Actually, that wasn't a bad name. "What about Wraith?" He called. The white wolf stuck his head out from a nearby tree and simply looked at him. Jon got the sense that he was noncommittal about it.

Alright, so not Wraith. Too bad. It was fitting too. The wolf was silent as death itself, and looked like a misplaced soul when he walked around in the dark. Then again, wraiths in the stories were all merciless creatures, pulling the unsuspecting from life too early. But they had counterparts—souls that broke free of the land of the dead to give warning. Good beings, which predicted death but tried to stop it. They were always white, too. Pale and soundless, doomed to fail in their desperate quests. Forever mistaken as the monster rather than the warning.

"Ghost?" He queried. He felt surprise in the back of his mind, and then the puppy was standing before him, crawled into Jon's lap in the most terribly dignified way, and licked his face.

 _Jon_. His name came from the wolf's mind and flowed into his own. _Your name is Jon_.

It was not language, exactly. Rather it was ideas, shuffled together to create a cohesive meaning. Still Jon stared.

"You _talk_?"

The wolf nipped him on the chin in response.

To be fair he probably should have expected that.

"Oh you'll pay for that!"

Jon stood, hands spread and palms down to show he meant to play. Ghost jumped up, wagging his tail tauntingly. Jon lunged for him but the wolf sprang away. Jon swept his arms out, and nearly caught the wolf under his belly.

And so it continued, for a few minutes, their hybrid game of wrestling and tag. Finally, Jon allowed Ghost to settle on his chest, his back on the forest floor.

"Alright, alright!" He laughed, "I yield!"

The puppy planted his bum over his ribcage. Jon felt smug satisfaction roll into his mind.

"Yeah, yeah. Braggart." The puppy didn't respond, and Jon rolled his eyes. "Well I suppose that's that. Ghost it is then." Jon rolled the puppy off of him, and the wolf trotted off again, still never making a sound.

"I see you've discovered your little friend's name." A warm, gravelly voice said from behind him.

Jon turned, surprised to see his father. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a white flash, and he felt Ghost's focus intensify. "Father," he breathed. Then anxiety rushed through him, and he stood. "I'm sorry, am I late for my chores?"

His father held up a calming hand, and came beside him. "Any chores you have will hold for the moment." Jon hesitated, unconvinced. "Sit with me, Jon."

And Jon did, resuming the spot he'd claimed only moments ago. It wasn't often his father decided to spend some one-on-one time with him. To be fair, his father had six children and a very large kingdom to run. Jon was the lowest position on that priority list, because he had the fewest responsibilities pertaining to the future of the North. His father tried to make room for everyone, he really did, but it still didn't happen often.

"You've been smiling more, since we brought the wolves home." His father commented, his tone light. "I hadn't noticed until it changed."

He was hoping Jon would explain his somber mood, his melancholy, and he was hoping Jon would offer the information willingly. Jon wasn't sure he wanted to, and hesitated. It was against everything in his nature to deny his father. But he also wasn't all that anxious to explain his recent worries over his future, and the thought of lying to his father was even more taboo than withholding the truth.

His father sensed his dilemma. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I just needed to ask. And I _do_ want to know. But I won't hold it against you if you aren't ready to tell me."

Jon let a deep breath out, suddenly relaxing. He and his father were a lot alike in this regard. Everybody said so, even Lady Stark, although with her it was usually more of a backhanded compliment than a casual observation. Jon and his father struggled to express emotions and fears verbally. It took time and patience, like water loosening a knotted rope.

His father wouldn't begrudge him his fears. And he'd asked out of concern, not out of condemnation.

"I've been thinking about the future." Jon whispered quietly, like it was a confession. "I'm not sure what I should do."

His father's brow pinched in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Jon bit his lip, and before he'd even had the thought he decided not to mention Lady Catelyn's hints. "I think I need to make a name for myself. Go somewhere that isn't Winterfell."

There was a pause, as his father processed. Then a deep breath. "I suppose that _is_ quite the burden for a mind to carry," he muttered. "But what could you do away from here that you couldn't do with your family?"

Jon shrugged, trying to think of a way to say this that didn't sound spiteful and ungrateful. "I don't know. I was thinking—maybe—like Uncle Benjen—and join the Watch?"

He waited for his father's judgement, his condemnation, or even his laughter. Instead he got silence, and Jon was too afraid to look at his father's face as he sat there. Ghost came up beside him, butted his hand with his head. Jon smiled, and scratched him behind the ears, grateful for the distraction.

"The Watch is an honorable life, Jon, but I have to wonder…why is it you want to leave so badly? Why do you want to give up the future you could have here?"

Jon didn't laugh and ask the spiteful question on his lips, the one that spat in the face of all his father had given him. "Well for one thing, I thought if I went, then Bran or Rickon wouldn't have to _." And they're much more important anyway._

His father frowned, but Jon thought he saw some pride in his father's eyes too. "That's very noble of you. But an unnecessary sacrifice if it's not what you want. That's not your price to pay."

Jon looked down, trying not to feel hurt. "They're not…suited for it. And I wouldn't have to give anything up. Not like them."

His father grasped his shoulder, forcing Jon to look at him. "You _would_ be giving something up, Jon. The chance at a family of your own. The chance to fight by your brothers' side if they should have need of you. The chance to see your sisters and brothers grow. Don't underestimate that, Jon. It's terribly important."

Jon didn't jerk out of his father's grasp, but it was a close thing. "But they can serve our family in other ways," Jon said. "This is about the only way _I_ can."

His father released his shoulder, almost as if stung, and Jon looked down, ashamed.

There was a moment of silence, and all Jon heard was the soft rustle of leaves above his head. Then his father took a deep breath, and released it.

"I've always wanted to legitimize you." Jon looked up, startled, feeling as though the world was tilting. "I couldn't—it would be a terrible insult to Catelyn, and many people would see it as me snubbing your siblings, but Jon, you have to know you're not just here to perform a duty. You are part of this family, whether you know it or not."

Turmoil reigned inside him, and he wasn't sure what to think. His father wanted to legitimize him? And he didn't because doing so would undermine the rest of their family?

Somewhere deep down, he'd always kind of thought that was why his father brought him to Winterfell as a baby. A glorified bodyguard, and family scapegoat. He knew his father would never be so cruel, rationally he knew, but his doubt always worried away at his conviction, especially in recent months. What other need could a great Lord like his father ever have for a bastard? He wasn't a back-up—his father had three sons, after all—and he wasn't _really_ part of the family. Lady Catelyn would, understandably, never allow it.

So what was he, exactly, if not the human shield and not a true son?

His father must have seen the question in his eyes. "You're my blood, Jon," he continued. "You're my blood. And I'm so very glad you exist, Jon."

Jon wasn't exactly sure what was expected of him at that particular moment. He wanted to hug his father, but he'd passed the stage where that was appropriate long ago. He wanted to cry, but he hadn't done that since he was seven. He wanted to react, to know what response was right, but he couldn't think or really even do much of anything.

It had always been a fear of his. Not even a fear really, because he'd seen the proof of it—or thought he had—nearly every day for as long as he could remember, and one could not fear what they knew, only what they didn't. When it came to Jon, Lord and Lady Stark's otherwise model relationship became downright frosty. He'd known—he'd thought he'd known—that his father must regret him, and probably regretted bringing him to Winterfell as well. What else could his father feel toward him, if not regret? What could he possibly feel?

The answer to that was staring him right in the face, and Jon just had no idea what he was supposed to do about it.

Luckily his father seemed to realize that, had grasped his inner turmoil, and pulled him close, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Jon returned the hug almost listlessly, but then wrapped his arms tighter around his father's waist when he realized what was happening.

He didn't cry. It wasn't something he'd intentionally avoided but the tears simply didn't come. A release probably would have felt good, he thought afterword, but the tears simply didn't form through the shock.

They held each other for a long time. Long enough for his back to stiffen, and long enough for his father to start rocking them slightly, like he was something precious.

"It's a hard life, living at the Wall. And you've barely had time to live yet. Think hard on this, Jon. If you still want to go in a few months or a few years' time, I will not stop you. But you will always have a place in Winterfell. You know this."

Jon pulled away, knowing the moment was at an end. "I do, Father." He'd never doubted it, he could say that honestly, at least.

Ned clapped his back. "Good. Now," he grunted as he stood. "I think it's about time we get a move on. You have some chores to do, I heard?"

Jon nodded. "Yes, Father."

"Best get to those then. I heard gooseberry lamb is being served tonight, and you wouldn't want to be late for that."

Jon laughed. "No, Father."

"Good lad." Ned looked around, curious. "Where did your wolf run off to, then? We shouldn't leave him out here alone."

Jon shrugged. "Ghost goes where he wants. But he's always around."

A smile played at his father's stoic lips. "Mercurial creature. Bit like someone else I know," he said pointedly.

Jon nodded solemnly, holding his father's gaze and delivered in a perfect deadpan, "Aye, and I."

His father's smile won out over his steady stoicism. "Cheeky brat."

Ned turned, and Jon followed his father away from the Weirwood tree and toward the gate. He wondered what the gods thought, suddenly, about the conversation he'd just shared with his father. There was no way they could have missed it, after all. It happened right in front of the tree!

The air seemed to tighten, suddenly, and it would have been imperceptible to him but his connection to Ghost clued him in, told him of the difference. The red leaves rustled and the green ones stilled.

Jon noticed these only in passing. They were not a concern, and they most certainly were not interpreted—they were barely more than a subconscious acknowledgement of his surroundings.

But Ghost drifted closer to him, and Jon bent to swipe his fingers over his head in a gentle pat. The wolf gave no reaction, and simply hovered like the creature he was named for, haunting his steps.

It was the first time the wolf walked behind and not before him, and that Jon _did_ notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So originally, this whole piece was going to be a oneshot comprised of several drabbles. This is the chapter that let me know, once and for all, that it would not be a oneshot. Originally it was just supposed to be that bit where Jon names Ghost. Then it evolved.
> 
> I hope you liked the Ned/Jon Father/Son bonding scene. It was fun to write. And it tackled several things I'm not sure were ever covered in the series. Also, let me know what you thought of Jon and Robb's interactions. I find them difficult for some reason.
> 
> Tell me what you thought!
> 
> P.S. I have decided that Jon and Ghost's theme song is Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day. Hell it's the perfect theme song for this fic. Maybe even GoT/ASoIaF in general.


	4. The Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert arrives at Winterfell. Ghost receives an omen.

It was one of those days.

The air was clear, the sky bright, and the ground just shy of frozen, with no snow covering the leaves and grass. It beckoned to Ghost, pulled at his blood and muscles and made him long for a great run across the plains surrounding their Pack-den.

But today was not a day to play.

It chafed at Ghost a bit, to be honest.

Today was important, apparently, because a human was arriving.

Ghost didn't always understand the humans and their strange practices of Pack and authority. Alpha-stark was the alpha of their Pack, and he'd acted well in that role. He should be the only authority the Pack had to abide by. But for some reason, he wasn't.

Jon had sort of explained, and Ghost had gleaned more information from listening to the conversations of others. Apparently the man coming was the Alpha-of-Alphas of all the humans. Like the entire land housed one large Pack. And this Alpha-of-Alphas, he was coming, and he couldn't be treated as any other man. He required much preparation and humbling of his Pack-humans.

Ghost didn't like it. Or understand really. Alpha-stark should be honored and paid respect in their Pack-den, if anyone was. Humans were very docile about authority, Ghost had discovered. They fought for it but they did not fight it. And they had elaborate, superfluous ways of expressing deference. As if following wasn't deference enough.

His sentiments were shared, to varying degrees, among his Brother-Sister-wolves. Nymeria-sister was the one who agreed with him most, followed closely by Shaggydog-brother. The others were more ambivalent, especially Lady-sister. Grey Wind-brother was suspicious but reserving judgment.

 _Perhaps he is a worthy Alpha-Of-All-men_ , his brother-wolf suggested. _Perhaps he is one whom even Alpha-stark should follow rightly._

Ghost rather doubted it.

Part of his suspicion, he assumed, lay with Jon's increasing sullenness as the arrival of the Alpha-of-Alphas drew nearer. His bondmate was agitated, and somehow hurt by the coming arrival of the outsider human. Ghost didn't know why. Sansa-the-Driven-pup was ecstatic, he could smell it every time she was near and Lady-sister told him she often spoke of the coming Alpha-of-Alphas with great eagerness.

Ghost wasn't really sure what to make of that either. Sansa-the-Driven-pup usually treated Jon somewhat coldly—a reflection of her Alpha-female's behavior. She was often drawn to and excited by the confusing human practices that involved status and adulthood. Somehow this included snubbing Jon, and Ghost neither understood nor liked it. He could tell his Pack-sister was not a cruel pup, but she insisted on hurting his bondmate, and so he didn't know if he trusted her. And if Sansa-the-Driven-pup was excited by the Alpha-of-Alphas, then it probably meant poor things for Jon.

His bondmate was currently in one of the many clearings in the Pack-den, working with the sharp silver thing that acted as Jon's claws. Humans had no claws to speak of, only thin, blunt things that had no use whatsoever, as far as Ghost could tell. But they often fashioned and used replacements, like the Long-claws Jon and Robb-the-Noble-pup used and practiced with, or the strange contraption that shot teeth like Bran-the-Dream-Walker-pup was learning to use.

Jon's practices with the Long-claw were something Ghost found very strange. The humans apparently had no natural ability with their replacement claws and teeth, and so had to hone their skills with them. To do that, they practiced on each other. It made Ghost nervous. These humans had too little control with their Long-claws and Teeth-projectors. They could hurt each other too easily, even unintentionally.

Still, Ghost figured it was similar to the play he and his Brother-Sister-wolves engaged in while their teeth were growing in and their bodies grew rapidly, which taught them how to move their newly-muscled limbs to the best of their abilities. Frustratingly, Ghost was no longer allowed to play with his Brother-Sister-wolves. In recent weeks he'd had an incredible growth spurt, and rather than being the smallest of his litter he was the largest, his shoulders rising eight centimeters above even Grey Wind-brother's. His smaller siblings, notably Lady-sister, were even wary of him and his size. Lady-sister and Summer-brother flat-out refused to wrestle with him anymore, and even Nymeria-sister, the cleverest of them, was incapable of winning against him.

With a little pride, he had long since noticed his bondmate was similarly skilled. He was the best of their Pack at the Long-claw, followed closely by Robb-the-Noble-pup. Jon moved with rare grace when he wielded that strange shiny claw. Sometimes he even reminded Ghost of the wolves, when he was having a particularly good day. The wolves, or some other powerful and graceful creature.

Alpha-female, he had noticed, did not share his pride. She radiated tension whenever she was around Jon, especially when he was practicing with Robb-the-Noble-pup.

He was certain now that Jon was not whelped from Alpha-female. The other Wolf-pups smelled like the North and had the wolf in their veins, but they also smelled faintly of water, and of thick and lazy summer days. Jon had none of that in his blood. Instead Ghost smelled fire and ash, alongside the ice and the wolf.

Perhaps that was the reason Jon was so upset with the Alpha-of-Alpha's arrival, Ghost considered. He'd noticed the Pack, alpha and omega alike, called Jon a strange title Ghost did not understand. 'Bastard,' they called him. Near as he could understand, it was an insult, and had something to do with Jon's siring. It made Jon's status lower than the other wolf-pups, for some reason. Perhaps that was why the Alpha-of-Alpha's arrival was bad for Jon? Because he'd be treated poorly by him, for some stupidly human reason?

Just then, his bondmate tripped, and Robb-the-Noble-pup removed Jon's Long-claw with his own.

"I yield," Jon muttered, as was standard practice, and Ghost felt a flash of irritation from his bondmate. The wolf shifted in satisfaction. Jon was a true alpha. Submitting was not in his blood. Ghost was glad though, that he'd do it when necessary.

Robb-the-Noble-pup smiled and removed his Long-claw from Jon's neck. "Good spar," he said genially, "I got lucky."

Theon-the-Sea-monster was not so gentle or good-hearted. "With the king so close you'd think you'd try and improve your _skill_ rather than your clumsiness!"

Ghost did not like the boy. He smelled of iron and salt, and his nature was not kind, like the rest of the Pack. He was as fickle and inconstant as the sea. Ghost was not sure how the boy had come to be under Alpha-stark's care, but he had gleaned that the boy was of some status himself, in some other land under some other Pack. Ghost did not see how that mattered here. In this Pack he was merely a beta among alphas, and he wasn't even a good or useful beta. He was spiteful and mean, and Ghost could sense a restlessness in the boy that he did not trust. It made the wolf watch carefully whenever Jon was near him.

Jon didn't acknowledge the insult. "When is he supposed to arrive anyway? I thought it would be this morning."

Robb-the-Noble-pup made a gesture indicating he had limited knowledge of the subject—a raising and lowering of shoulders. "This afternoon, probably. If not, then it will be tomorrow morning."

Theon-the-Sea-monster ruffled Jon's black head-fur. "I'd hate to think we shaved you for nothing, Jon. You're rather fond of that beard after all."

His bondmate scowled and shoved him away, but Ghost could tell he wasn't really upset. "At least I can grow a decent one, unlike some people."

That shut the other boy up, and Ghost looked on quite satisfied.

"We should probably change, actually," Robb-the-Noble-pup said, "Mother will skin us alive if—"

A sharp, piercing noise sounded across the Pack-den, and Theon-the-Sea-monster said something Ghost could only assume was an expletive.

Immediately the three boys ran through the castle, Ghost and Grey Wind-brother loping behind them. Jon turned off to his rooms and Ghost waited on his sleep-nest while his bondmate changed his skins. Humans had such strange replacements for fur. Ghost wondered why they didn't just grow it all over their bodies, like everyone else. Only a human could be so arrogant as to think they could replace fur with something better.

Jon was quick about it, and as he ran for the door Ghost bounded after him, just barely managing to catch up with him before Jon shut him in his den. The boy smiled apologetically and then sprinted down the corridor, Ghost following. He wondered at all this haste. Even Alpha-stark did not command such ardent, almost fearful behavior. What could inspire this? What power did the Alpha-of-Alphas have?

By the time they reached the main clearing, the one just inside the outer walls, most everyone had gathered. Jon moved into the crush of humans, and Ghost found a space off to the side, and a little above, so he could keep an eye on his bondmate and see the proceedings. His Brother-Sister-wolves, he'd noticed, were near the Horse-Prey-den, sitting in a line.

As he watched Jon move behind his Brother-Sister-pups, and Alpha-Stark and Alpha-female, Ghost couldn't help but think their placement was ironically similar.

Of course, this almost definitely confirmed his theory about Jon being somehow threatened by this Alpha-of-Alphas due to his Birth-circumstances. Ghost didn't know how or why, but the increased anxiety of his bondmate confirmed that something strange was happening. It made Ghost tense.

Then men riding horse-prey trotted into the clearing in pairs. One very large man rode before a strange contraption with wheels, and every member of his Pack bowed. Ghost had never seen a man so large, so strangely misshapen. Ghost felt something like irritation rise when even Jon and Alpha-Stark bowed. This was the human gesture of complete submission. Of vulnerability. Who among the entrants commanded such respect of his Pack-humans? They were a proud and strong group. Seeing them bow chafed.

The big man was brought a crate, and he dismounted heavily before approaching Alpha-stark. After a moment they greeted each other fondly.

"I've been holding the North for you," Alpha-stark consoled, "Winterfell is yours."

Wait.

What?

This, this was the Alpha-of-Alpha's everyone had been scrambling to meet? This gormless old man who weighed twice what he should? Who smelled nothing of the North, but rather of that horrible fermented drink Jon sometimes indulged in, and the forest? Who smelled of _prey_?

Ghost supposed there might have been something of an alpha in the strange man before him once. Long ago when he had less white in his face-fur. But _now_?

Now he smelled of laziness, of idle. Of wastefulness, of poor character, and bitterness and cruelty.

In Pack, when an alpha became unsuited to leadership he was soon replaced by a wolf who was fitter for the role. It might be old age that takes the alpha's strength, or perhaps sickness. But no wolf suffered incompetence for long.

He had not thought humans to be so different.

Alpha-stark should not bow to this fool. It was an insult to their Pack.

Ghost watched, growling low and unconsciously until a boy nearby looked at him uneasily. He did not make any effort to stop.

The Alpha-of-Alphas greeted the Alpha-female, and then all of the wolf-pups in turn. He did not greet Jon. Ghost felt Jon's turmoil over that. Ghost did not see why he cared. Jon was too good for that creature. That fool should bow to _Jon_.

Then a female stepped out of the strange wooden box, and Ghost's attention was immediately on her.

It had not occurred to Ghost that the Alpha-of-Alphas might have a mate. If she was it, Ghost could kind of see why she'd been chosen as Alpha-of-Females. There was something sharp about her, like claws and teeth. She carried herself like she expected respect, like she would be surprised if anyone thought to do anything but bow to her as she walked by. She had light-colored head-fur Ghost had not yet seen on a human, like Summer-brother's coat. She smelled of predator, of power and wit.

Ghost did not like her at all.

His growling, now, had become audible to a great many humans nearby. Ghost saw their discomfort, and made no effort to stop. This was wrong, all of it. The bowing, the Alpha-of-Alphas-mates, the fear and discomfort and pain he felt radiating from Jon. It was wrong, all wrong, and Ghost didn't understand why the humans would behave in such a way.

Then suddenly, the crowd of people was breaking up. Alpha-stark was walking off to the side with the fool, and Ghost almost wanted to follow them, to rip the stranger's throat out and be done with it.

But then his vision was filled with Jon.

He continued to growl, expressing his displeasure with this whole affair. Jon grimaced. Ghost could feel through their bond that even though he shared some sentiments he was wary of expressing them.

"Come on," Jon gestured for Ghost to jump off the crate. "We need to talk."

Ghost followed him, still angry. His bondmate led him outside the stone walls of their Pack-den, to where the fields spread for kilometers in all directions.

"You can't growl at the king," Jon told him. "I don't care if you don't like him, you just can't. He could order any one of us dead at any moment, and we'd have to obey."

Ghost recoiled, confused. That fat, slow, _weak_ human could decide matters of life and death? What was _wrong_ with them? What was wrong with his Pack? Where was the wolf in their blood? Ghost could smell it, he knew it lurked there. Why subjugate themselves to someone unworthy? Why allow that?

Jon sighed, and Ghost knew he was sensing his thoughts. "Look, I don't particularly like having him here either. But making him happy makes everyone here safe, you see? If we please the royal family, we're all safe. Everyone in Winterfell. Everyone in the North."

Ghost snarled in frustration. Who gave that creature power? Why would they do such a thing?

"There was a war, a long time ago. It ended right before I was born. Father and King Robert overthrew the Mad King because he killed my grandfather and uncle and his son kidnapped my aunt, who was betrothed to King Robert. My father and the king are best friends. They grew up together."

Ghost simmered in agitation. Little of what Jon said made sense. It was too messy. Unclean. He was of the North—Jon and his entire Pack were of the North—such things were not their way. They were decisive. The cold excised unnecessary things, and the ice made them sharp.

It was the first time he'd been faced with just how different humans were from him and his kind. How they allowed such sluggishness and nonsense into their lives, how they grasped at power which wasn't theirs to take. Yes, his Pack was partly human, but he'd thought the wolf in their blood ruled them. So far it had. He didn't like this proof that they were not as clean as he'd believed. It made him wary. Mistrustful.

But then he noticed his bond with Jon.

His bondmate was just as confused and insulted as he was, albeit for some different reasons. He didn't hate the idea of an Alpha-of-Alphas, but he didn't like the current one. He felt slighted by him too. He hated their arrival—it reminded him of his lesser status due to his parentage, his not-relation to Alpha-female.

Ghost thought of how Jon had yielded earlier to Robb-the-Noble-pup, and how he knew when to concede even though his pride cried against it. Jon didn't want to bow. But he did so anyway because he needed to. Everyone needed to.

He felt a little more reassured. Humans were odd, yes, and they unnecessarily complicated things, but there was a part of them which still respected the old ways—the wildlands and the Rights-of-way.

Ghost still didn't like the fat fool though.

"You don't have to like him," Jon told Ghost. "You just can't let everyone know you hate him."

Ghost knew Jon could feel his agitation and confusion. He could tell because Ghost could feel Jon's sympathy in return.

"Look, just, go hunt, or something." Jon suggested, "Run off some steam. The king will be gone in a few days, so you only have to put up with him until then."

It was an appealing idea. But then Ghost hated the idea of leaving Jon to fend for himself while such vile humans dwelled within their Pack.

Jon sensed his hesitance. "I'll be fine. The king and queen don't even know I exist. Or care. And besides, I'm supposed to stay away from them."

There was a bit of bitterness in his bondmate over that last part. Resentment. It made Ghost's hackles rise.

But then, it also meant Jon really would stay away from the newcomers. He apparently had little choice or say in the matter.

Satisfied, he gave Jon a single nod. Jon returned it, and Ghost could feel his slight relief and anxiety both. Jon disliked the idea of separating too.

But it was necessary. So without further hesitation, Ghost trotted off into the fields around the Pack-den.

The winds were sharp today, and they pulled at his fur. Soon enough he was loping along playfully, and then running as fast as his legs could carry him. The sky was pale and the grass matte green. Ghost ran as pure as his namesake, a spirit of the land.

His senses became one with the earth and the white expanse above, ranging out and over hills and laughing-waters, noticing trees and rocks and flinty shale that covered the hills below, where the sky-weeping washed debris away.

There—a horned-prey, about three years old. Smaller than the one that killed Mother-wolf, but faster.

No matter. Ghost could take it down. He was smaller than his littermates, sure, but that by no means made him small or weak.

His prey was a few kilometers east. Ghost could hear a laughing-water bubbling over smooth small-rocks, and assumed the creature was drinking. There were no signs of a herd around the horned-prey. It was alone, separated from its kin.

 _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_ , Jon told him once. Ghost couldn't help but think it was accurate.

Ghost maneuvered himself so he was downwind of his prey. This creature was faster than him. If he ran off from too far away, Ghost would never catch him, and he'd have to find a new target.

It took very little time to get close. Ghost was silent, as he always was, as he approached the horned-prey. It was indeed drinking from the laughing-water, about twenty meters from the tree-line. Ghost could cross that distance in two strides.

The white wolf coiled his muscles, checked his surroundings one last time, and leaped toward his prey, fangs bared.

He landed on the creature's back, teeth sinking deep into his neck until blood welled between his jaws. The horned-prey thrashed but Ghost held on until the fight left it and the moans of pain stopped. It was less than a minute—Ghost had no wish to make his prey suffer.

Ghost finished his meal and buried the remains of his kill for later. There was more meat on this one horned-prey than he could gorge himself on in this one sitting. He padded over to the laughing-water, intent on washing himself of the gore. The females in the Pack-den always made a fuss about such things.

Well, all the females except Arya-the-Fierce-pup. She was a true wolf, that one. Smelled more of the North than her sire did.

But as he reached the laughing-water, something caught his eye in the reflection. A dark spot against the pale sky.

He turned and looked up. There, a blight against the harsh serenity of this land, was a raven, flying north. Ghost heard it caw, and somehow knew it was directed at him.

Ravens were terrible creatures. They demanded the respect of every living thing of the wildlands, predators and watchers in the sky.

Ghost trailed along the laughing-water, following as best he could without crossing. The raven just flew ahead, faster than Ghost could follow, before disappearing from sight. The wolf slowed easily to a halt. He sniffed, wondering if he could follow based on smell—he couldn't, he was downwind.

But then something tickled his ears, a rustling, a thousand feathers with air moving through them.

He looked up.

An unkindness of ravens a hundred strong flew in formation after their fellow. They stretched across the sky, a scythe to the wild tranquility of the land.

Ghost did not try and follow them this time.

This was an omen, he knew. A message. Like the dead crow at the base of the weeping-tree. Something was happening around him, something he was sure his bondmate was embroiled with. Direwolves did not have destinies in the way humans did. They had Pack, and power, but not destinies. Humans were the actuators of nature, the ones who changed and were changed by themselves—it was their curse. This was a message for Jon as much as it was for him.

 _Go North_ , the ravens seemed to call. _Go North and see_.

And as the unkindness disappeared over the horizon, the silent white wolf knew he had little choice in the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, a group of Ravens is indeed called an unkindness, which I thought was just too terribly appropriate. In other news concerning terribly appropriate naming choices, a group of crows is called a murder of crows, which. Well.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter. It was a lot of set up and, as will usually be the case with Ghost, a lot of internal conflict. He's just realized his humans might not be as wolf-like as he thought. Harsh. And now he's got a directive from the gods. Originally this chapter was going to have Ghost going back to Winterfell and meet up with Jon after his talk with Benjen and Tyrion, and realize they were going to go north of Jon's own volition. Then I decided it was unnecessary. We all know Jon goes to the wall. We know why. Ghost doesn't care why, he just knows they need to go.
> 
> Tell me what you guys thought. If you had trouble figuring out what Ghost was saying at times, let me know. I tried to make it pretty clear via context, but I did compile a glossary of terms that I can include as an independent chapter from now on, if you like. If three or more people want it I'll post it.


	5. The Arriving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Night's Watch is not what Jon expected. This is possibly the greatest understatement of his young life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after Jon and Sam's conversation on the Wall, but before they have that conversation where they both admit to being virgins. Jon pities Sam, is willing to protect them, but he doesn't see him as a confidant and friend yet. That means it takes place mid-episode for the show, and I don't know about the books because I've yet to read them.

Jon turns over on his narrow cot and, dissatisfied and restless, sits up to don his extra layers and fur cloak.  Here at the Wall it is too cold to sleep without boots, at least in the training bunkers.  Ghost, a white smudge in the pitch-dark barracks, stands in interest as Jon moves.

Jon doesn’t speak to his steadfast friend, only nods his head toward the door and makes his way outside as silently as possible.  Ghost, as always, treads silently beside him.  The Direwolf is tense here.  Certain men set him off more than others but the wolf’s anxiety is a constant thrum in Jon’s mind.  A niggling alertness that Jon wouldn’t be able to shake if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

Ghost’s wariness is completely understandable.  Most of the men here are monsters Jon would sooner slaughter than allow to live, had he been the one controlling their destinies.  Outlaws, thieves, murderers.  One man _bragged_ about raping his daughter bloody while his wife watched.  Not nearly enough men’s lips curled in disgust when he described how she screamed.

These were not brave men.  These were not _honorable_ men.  These were cowards too terrified of what waited beyond the veil of death to go willingly when confronted with the depth of their crimes.

The training yard is empty when Jon approaches, having taken a sword from the armory.  He is used to weapons with a finer balance, which weigh easily in his hand and do not drag at his movements.  Most of the implements are old, well-used, and poorly maintained.  They were not what the Rangers used—those were of a better quality—but upon seeing them for the first time, Jon wondered how he could have missed the joke everyone seemed to catch but him.

No one cares about the Night’s Watch, about the _noble honor_ of taking the Black.  It is a brotherhood of the deranged and depraved, whose original purpose was lost to myth and smoke.

Jon approaches a training dummy, and starts hacking at it.  Ser Roderick taught him one final set the week before he left Winterfell.  It is difficult for Jon, as it relies less on footwork than it does on raw coordination.  It plays against Jon’s strengths, which is probably why Ser Roderick told him to practice it in the first place.

Ghost takes up a watch a few meters from Jon.  If he focuses, he can sense Ghost paying attention to their surroundings with careful consideration, trying to track for any threats.  Ghost rarely goes far from Jon these days, and he has taken to growling at every other man that approaches in subtle warning.

Again, it is not like Jon can blame him.  He is having an equally difficult time trusting anyone.

Uncle Benjen left a week ago.  Lord Tyrion the morning after that.  With them gone, the only two men who ever tried to warn Jon away from this place are missing, and it will be months before Uncle Benjen returns.  He trusts no one else here.  He is utterly, completely alone.

His moves become more erratic and frustrated, and so Jon downgrades to a more familiar set.  Ser Roderick would hamstring him if he found Jon was practicing new moves like that, developing mistakes out of carelessness and anger.

Training at the Wall is difficult.  So far the techniques are more basic than anything Jon has intently practiced in recent years, but that makes them no less tiring when done for hours on end.  Especially since Ser Allister has decided the best way to train both Jon and his fellow initiates is to pit them all against him at once.

“And what do you think you’re doing, Lord Snow?”  A gruff voice calls.  Jon doesn’t have to look at Ghost to know the wolf’s hackles are raised and a soft growl trembles past his jaws.

Ghost does not like Ser Allister.  Jon is not particularly fond of him either.

“I couldn’t sleep, Ser.  I thought I would train some more.”  He thinks for a second, and against his better judgment, adds, “And I am no Lord, Ser.”

At first he thought the nickname was merely meant to egg on his peers, make them angry that they couldn’t beat a simple bastard.  But Jon is not stupid and if Lord Tyrion taught him anything it was that things are almost always more complicated than what they seem.

Life in Winterfell was simpler than Jon once believed.

The nickname was also meant to mock Jon for his own arrogance, to further separate him from the crowd, and inform him on no certain terms that he was no better than the other men here.  And every time Allister called the name, his peers grew to resent him more.  _They_ had no sword master to teach them, and Jon was certainly not better than them—he was a simple bastard, of course.

It was cruel of Allister to divide them like that.  Unnecessary too.  If he desired to force them into unity, into forging bonds, he would have made himself the enemy, not Jon.  Instead he tried to make Jon an outcast in a horde of outcasts.  It was infuriating.  And disheartening.  The Watch was supposed to be better than that.  Uncle Benjen believed it was, at least.

Jon isn’t sure why Thorne hates him so much, but he knows now that he does, knows he has an enemy here.  Worse, an enemy with power over him.

And after Sam, after the cruelty Allister afforded the poor, helpless coward, Jon found himself returning the sentiment, just a little.

“I’ll call you what I like, boy.”  Allister dismisses.  He strides over to Jon, whose training sword hung easily at his side.  Ghost’s soft growls grow slightly in volume and force.  Allister’s lip curls further, but he ignores Ghost.  “So what is it?  The bed too hard for your high-born back?  Didn’t we tire you enough to rest your delicate eyes, Lord Snow?”

Jon can’t sleep because he hates it here, he wants to go home, but he can’t because that would mean returning in shame and he can’t do that to his family, can’t see the look on Bran and Arya and Rob’s faces when they discover Jon is a worthless, dishonorable coward.  He can’t sleep because something restless moves in his blood, and whenever he closes his eyes he is unsure if someone will try to stab him in the dark.

“Nothing like that, Ser,” Jon tries to stay respectful.  Thorne just wants to rile him, and Jon refuses to give him the satisfaction.  “Just couldn’t sleep.”

Thorne’s ruddy face is inscrutable.  “I hear you’ve been training the boys outside of practice.”

Jon can _sense_ that this is an attack, but he’s not exactly sure how.  His temper bristles anyway, defensive.  “I offered to help them, Ser, so they might catch up.”

Thorne’s eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer to Jon, just a little too close for comfort.  “And what of the Tarly boy?  You teachin’ him to fight too, Snow?”

Oh, so that _was_ what this is about.  Jon doesn’t look Ser Allister in the eye, sure he would see defiance the older man could not ignore.  Jon thinks of poor, sweet Sam, cast down by his father and given two horrible choices, both of which would likely end in his own death.  He thinks of the same boy, pleading on the ground as the flat of a blade welts his back.  “No, Ser Allister.”

Thorne took another step, and Jon could smell the sick-sweet mead on his breath.  He cannot prevent himself from glaring into his weathered face.  Ghost’s growls escalate in time with Jon’s rebellion.  “And why is that, Lord Snow?”

Ghost jumps to his feet and prowls closer.  Jon notices only peripherally, because it is taking most of his concentration to reign in his temper.  “Sam isn’t…suited.”

Thorn’s eyes flash in fury and a gloved hand reached out to grab the front of Jon’s tunics, lifting him up and off-balance.  Jon halts the instinct to swing his sword, and Ghost lets out a sharp bark of warning, his wrath coloring Jon’s own mind.  No fear crosses his face and he stares down Allister as best he can from the undignified position.

“Yer damn right, he isn’t suited.”  Thorn whispers.  The look on his face twists to something Jon doesn’t have enough experience to read.  “You do him no favors, Lord Snow.”

He shoves Jon away and Ghost moves between them, snapping his jaws.  Allister takes an unconscious step backward and then tries to pretend it didn’t happen.  Embarrassed, he scowled.  “Keep a muzzle on your hound, Snow, or I’ll do it for you.  Permanently.”

Jon glared.  “He’s not a hound, Ser, he’s a Direwolf.”  _And you can’t touch him, you miserable old man._

The Direwolves were mythologized and respected by more than just House Stark.  The entirety of the North recognized that they were sacred to the old gods, and to the land itself.  They were protected, in a way.  And it has been a very long time since a wolf bonded with a human the way the puppies did with the Stark children.  Nothing stayed secret for long, and from what whispers Jon heard on his ride to Castle Black, there was a hushed sort of reverence for the creatures among the people of the North.  Reverence, and a dread anticipation for what it meant.

That sentiment was even stronger among the Watch.  When Jon arrived with a Direwolf in tow, there was a strange sort of surprise and fear among the faces of the men.  They were more superstitious than most—the influence of the wild north, if Jon had to guess.  Uncle Benjen just looked upon the men and told them Ghost was to stay with Jon, and there were no protests. 

It figured that Allister would be an exception to the rule.  Jon wondered if that was because he was a Southerner before the Watch, or because he hated Jon.

It didn’t matter much.  If Allister went after Ghost, there would be little support among the men.

“I don’t care _what_ it is.  _Muzzle him_ ,” Allister growls.  Jon holds his gaze, but gives Ghost a stern look.  The wolf ceases rumbling, but his ruff is pricked with warning.  Allister’s stare becomes inscrutable, touched with pride.  “Look at you.  Nothing in the world but a mutt and the clothes on your back, and you came here thinking you were better than everyone here.  And when they didn’t bow to you, when they didn’t meet your expectations, you grew angry.”

Containing his temper has never been Jon’s strength and he can’t listen to this anymore.  “That’s not true, Ser.”

Thorne’s face is skeptical and superior.  “It’s not?  Coulda fooled me, Lord Snow.”

Allister leaves before Jon works through his fury and indignation enough to form a response.  He stands there for another minute or so, trying to shake off the rage and hurt pride, and then he angrily returns the sword to the armory.  He is agitated, and admittedly weary.  If he continues much longer he’ll have worked a full day’s training, three hours with the boys, and another hour out here alone with no sleep.

But he can’t rest, either.  His blood moves too quick and his mind flies too incoherently to dream.

Ghost, sensing his irritation, hovers nearby in an equal state of annoyance.  Jon looks at him, and says very seriously, “I can’t let you kill him just because he’s rude.”

Ghost says nothing, but Jon can tell from the irritation and the cock of his head that he’s asking _you sure?_

Ghost has not spoken to him beyond feelings and images since the day Jon named him.  Jon finds he is alright with this.  The ability to communicate with an animal the way he does with Ghost is not natural or normal, and if he thinks about it too hard, Jon gets a little uncomfortable.  Adding constant communication—communication with _words_ , at least—would be a bit overwhelming.

He does wonder if he’ll ever hear the wolf so clearly again, but for now Jon figures words are just saved for special occasions.  He’s okay with that.

“C’mon, Ghost,” he tells his friend.  “Let’s go up top.”

Ghost’s ears prick with interest and he trots over to Jon to catch up.

Jon doesn’t know if he is really _supposed_ to go to the top of the Wall when he isn’t on duty, but no one has told him to stop yet.  Jon figures he can’t be the only restless, sleepless man at Castle Black.  Someone is always at the winch that pulls the compartment up, and Jon sends him a wave as he approaches.  The old Watchman nods to him and takes the horse that turns the wheel by the halter as Jon and Ghost climb inside.

It takes about five minutes to get to the top.  Every time, Jon expects the distance to be shorter than it is.  Ghost eyes the lift with distrust.

When he and Ghost stepped off, they lit a torch and walked down the Wall.  Some of the men on duty give him a cursory nod, but for the most part he is ignored.  Each guards’ stand was about twenty meters apart, and at any given time, the thirty closest to Castle Black were manned.  Between each stand was an overlook jutting from the main path.  These had no shelter, no place to hold a torch, but they overlooked the great black expanse of the North, and that is all Jon wants for now.

Jon approaches one of the overhangs, and leans over the edge as far as he dare.  His torch hovers out and above his head, so that he might see down the face of the structure.  The sheer magnitude of the Wall was awe-inspiring, and Jon felt a strange connection to this place, to the northland itself, that he couldn’t deny.

He settles with his feet overhanging the drop, and Ghost lays down beside him with his muzzle resting on his front paws and his warm back curling behind Jon.  The dark maw of the North opens before Jon and something in his blood sings in recognition with it.

He can’t see anything.  It’s a new moon, and even on bright nights the land is too far from the top of the Wall to really see anything.  But there’s a rumbling deep beneath the earth that sings a song in Jon’s head, draws a virtuosic map of all the trees and snow and scrub.  Jon thinks no one else must hear.  If they did they would never sleep.

He feels it strongest up here.  With the wind and biting cold.  The song thrums in his blood and his awe overcomes his lingering anger at Ser Allister’s accusations.  Enough that he’s able to think a little clearer about it, at least.

“Is he right, you think?  Did I come expecting them to bow?”

He can’t help the curdle of resentment that boils in his belly at the insinuation.

Ghost seems to realize Jon is mostly talking to himself, and just gives off a sense of general irritation.  The Direwolf has been stressed since their arrival.  Restless.

Jon knows he came here with misconceptions.  He thought the Watch to be a refuge of honorable outcasts, a brotherhood of wronged and kind men who chose to protect the realm rather than take their vengeance on it.  He thought he’d meet people like himself.

Thanks to Tyrion, he knew he hadn’t treated his fellow brothers fairly, at the beginning.  And even Uncle Benjen scolded him when he started to say he was better than his brothers.  He meant at swordplay.  Uncle Benjen seemed to think he meant more than that.  Maybe he had.

Looking back, he could see it, a little.  How the others must have seen him.  A high-born bastard with a Direwolf hounding his steps, nephew of the First Ranger.  Even if he hadn’t misunderstood the other’s hatred of him and made it worse, it would have been hard to avoid a reputation for arrogance.  People would have seen it if it hadn’t been there.

And to his shame, he _had_ come here arrogant.  He claimed that what he wanted was recognition as an equal.  But maybe what he’d really wanted instead, was recognition as a Stark.  As someone worthy of the name among men who couldn’t claim to be his betters.

Jon would never— _never_ —be able to stomach some of the crimes the other men committed to get here.  He would never stop expecting more of them, never stop demanding honor from them.  And they would always disappoint.  But…maybe that didn’t have to mean Jon couldn’t live here.  Couldn’t do something about it.  Maybe he could do small things, like protect Sam and teach new recruits, that would add up to make a difference.  Maybe the Night’s Watch could mean a place of second chances and honor again, rather than an alternative death sentence for criminals.

He still wanted to go home.  But up here, with the black abyss stretched before him, the wind howling and nipping at his furs, with the song of the icy north singing in his veins and echoed by Ghost’s anticipation, he could maybe see a future.  Or at least, a future no worse than anything else Jon could do with his life.

Ghost is paying attention to his thoughts and mood.  He seems restless up here, more so than usual.  He always seemed restless, when they weren’t moving.  Jon just hopes becoming a Ranger will help fend off Ghost’s boredom.  The Direwolf’s shoulder is at Jon’s hip now, and his growth spurt shows no signs of stopping.

Jon thinks about the Direwolf lore, about how it proclaims the Direwolves to be omens and guides to the Starks.  He thinks about the weight that settled in his stomach as his father executed the deserter.

“Why did you come to me, huh?  What’s going to happen that’s so bad the gods sent you?”

Ghost doesn’t give him any indication that he heard Jon, and his eyes are an impassive blood-peach in the flickering firelight.  He can sense that Ghost has an answer, but he’s unwilling to give it.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”  He leans against the side of the wall, and the cold that seeps into him is strange in its comfort.  Something calls from the abyss of the beyond, and for just a moment Jon feels Ghost’s restlessness as his own.  “I suppose there’s nothing to do but see it through then.”

He isn’t sure exactly to what he refers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, hey guys. Long time no see?
> 
> I'm posting in honor of the series return today. I have forced myself not to watch before I post this, so you're welcome. Is anyone else excited?
> 
> I have to say, it is really frustrating to rewatch season 1. The whole time I just want to scream at everyone that they're making terrible decisions. Ned is beyond frustrating, because he refuses to make smart decisions even when he sees the option. Jon is especially heartbreaking to watch. I so wish his biggest problem had remained that he was a bastard in a comfy castle. Part of what this chapter is about, actually, is Jon recognizing that his version of a perfectly egalitarian brotherhood was a falsehood, because in that vision he saw himself as above the rest. He's an arrogant little shit, I'll give him that. But his heart is in the right place.
> 
> This chapter wasn't about Ghost as much as the others. Jon needed to work some things out, and so yeah. Oh well. But we do get to see that Ghost is anxious and restless, so. There's that.
> 
> Let me know what you thought! I wasn't super satisfied with it, and I was a bit unsure about the flow/tone.   
>  Thanks everyone! Reviews are crack and love! Same thing really!


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